


the dark side of ambition

by comefeedtherainn



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, and the Slow Slow Burn of romance between james and jack, focus will be evenly split between the parental relationshp between james and weatherby, side Will Turner/Elizabeth Swann
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25522387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comefeedtherainn/pseuds/comefeedtherainn
Summary: James Norrington has been many things. Commodore, ex-Commodore, Drunkard, Pirate (briefly), and most recently, Admiral. He is not, however, a fucking dog.James Norrington makes a rash decision to save a life, and in turn changes his own.
Relationships: James Norrington & Weatherby Swann, James Norrington/Jack Sparrow
Comments: 26
Kudos: 128





	1. in which currency becomes immaterial

James Norrington tests the weight of the blade in his hand, familiar in the way it fits perfectly in his palm, in the way that even his reflection in the mirror can't be. Not these days, anyway. The weight is not, however, doing a thing for the hollow cavern in his chest, his heart having been ripped out somewhere between Elizabeth Swann being betrothed to a blacksmith-turned-pirate and losing his ship, crew, and dignity in the wicked winds of a hurricane. 

"Norrington."

James blinks, lifting his head with a start. Cutler Beckett raises an eyebrow, looking at him expectantly.

"I said - I think a promotion is in order. Would you agree, Admiral Norrington?"

 _Admiral._ The word sounds strange even ringing in between James' ears. He looks back down, to the sword in his hand (crafted by a thieving pirate, but flawless and beautiful nonetheless), before casting his eyes to the pouch still lying on Beckett's desk. It pulses steadily, the heart of Davy Jones beating like a drum inside. The emptiness in his chest aches more sharply, and he fantasizes about following Jones' example - cutting out the broken thing and putting it away in a box, never to be seen again.

"I thank you for your kindness, Lord Beckett," he says eventually, returning to sword to it's scabbard and turning to face the man again. "And I humbly accept."

The corner of Beckett's mouth lifts near imperceptably. "I thought you might."

James isn't quite sure what that is supposed to mean, and is being escorted from Beckett's office before he can give the question a fair chance to stew.

* * *

"She's dead. Didn't you know? Elizabeth is dead."

It is only with a great deal of self control that James does not release his grip on Weatherby's wrists. The governor is inches away from treason, the bayonet still clutched tightly in his fist and pointed at the beating heart of Davy Jones, careless of the gun barrels surrounding him. His breath is coming ragged, his eyes red and wild and miserable. A coldness closes around James' heart at his words, but he cannot comprehend them, cannot assign them their meaning because their meaning is unthinkable. 

"Withdraw, corporal," he says tensely, looking up at the man in question when he receives no response. " _Leave_!"

Another moment of hesitation before his order is followed, though James is no longer surprised by that. He is not in control, he is not the one to whom they truly report, Admiral or no. The world is different, now. The currency of the realm is currency, the immaterial has become immaterial. Titles and honor and principals mean nothing in the face of a heavy sack of coin.

The soldiers march out in formation.

"Let me go, let me go," Weatherby sobs through clenched teeth, the room now empty around them as he continues to fight against James' hold. "Let me do this!" 

"Yes. Let him go."

James has pulled his pistol and cocked it by instinct before he processes that the voice belongs to Jones, looking smug as he stares down the double barrels with no fear in his beady eyes.

"Stay back!" Weatherby spits. "I _will_ kill you!"

Jones' fleshy brow quirks, and James tightens his grip on his weapon as the pirate advances slowly further into the cabin. His peg leg thuds steadily on the wooden floor, loud in the tense silence. 

"And are you prepared for what comes after?" he asks, his eyes boring into Weatherby's. "When I carved that wretched thing from my body, I placed upon it a terrible geas. If you stab my heart, yours must take it's place."

The hair on the back of James' neck stands on end, and he chances a glance down at the heart, audibly beating inside of it's open chest. 

"The crew are not bound to me. They are bound to the Dutchman, and - the Dutchman must have a captain," Jones sneers. " _Will ye serve?_ "

James' eyes swivel to Weatherby again as he begins to tremble, his breath once again becoming odd and labored as his knuckles turn white around the bayonet. With renewed rage and strength, he pulls against James' grip, nearly freeing himself if James hadn't readjusted his hands at the last moment, and-

"Governor!"

They both freeze as Beckett hurries in with his man Mercer on his heels, his eyes wide and trained on the sharp blade only an inch from Jones' heart. The brief crack in his composure is swiftly plastered over, his mouth once more set into that irritatingly irreverent line that sort of makes James want to punch it. 

"Your daughter is still alive," Beckett says.

Weatherby stares, like he hasn't heard him correctly. "What?"

"I am perhaps guilty of the sin of ommission," Beckett continues, the corners of his mouth pinched as if he is being greatly inconvenienced. "She was recently seen in Singapore by Mr. Mercer," he adds, the man in question nodding his agreement.

Weatherby sobs again, his teeth bared as he shakes his head. "You're all liars," he says bitterly.

"No," Beckett says crisply, casting Jones a dry glance as he passes by him. "Jones is merely cruel."

"Governor," says James, turning away from Beckett completely to focus on Weatherby, who has ceased his mourning in favor of a cold anger. The sort that consumes a man when he has been pulled in too many directions, had his heart broken too many times. "There is still hope. Please."

Weatherby clenches his jaw, wrenching his arms out of James' tight grip. After a moment of pause, he places the bayonet in James' open palm, before stalking toward the exit with his shoulders hunched. He stops beside Beckett, glaring as if trying to bore a hole into his temple. 

"Our association is ended," he says, and Beckett does not meet his eyes as he leaves the cabin, his nose pointed toward the sky as always.

With the immediate threat gone, James levels his pistol at Jones again, staring him down and daring him with his eyes to try something.

"You are dismissed, Captain."

Jones twitches visibly at the order seethed from between Beckett's teeth, but he turns all the same, marching out as if compelled by a curse. In some ways, James supposes, maybe he is. He cannot say he doesn't empathize, in an odd way. He holsters his pistol once Jones is out the door.

"Thank you, Admiral."

The self-satisfied tilt to Beckett's mouth, as if James is a dog that he has successfully taught a new trick, sets his teeth on edge. He doesn't respond, instead heading toward the door and trying not to indulge his baser urges to beat the smirk off of Beckett's face. Before he can pass, Beckett holds out his hand, and James considers spitting into it before he drops the keys to Jones' chest into his palm instead. He leaves the cabin, and has not quite rounded the corner when he hears the voice of Mercer, quiet and conspiratory. Against his better judgement he pauses, tucking himself into the dark corner beside the doorway.

"Jones is a sly one. Who's going to kill him, if they know what happens after?"

"I can order Admiral Norrington's silence," Beckett drawls. "He'll obey. It's what he does."

An indignant anger curls in James' stomach, crawling up through his chest and into his throat. He is not a dog. He is not a dog. He is not a _fucking_ dog.

"And the governor?"

"Yes. Well. Every man ought to have a secret that he carries with him to his grave."

* * *

The only piece of his uniform that James keeps is the sword and pistol. All else is draped methodically over the chair at the corner desk in his cabin, hat and wig placed delicately on the desktop. He's even switched out the boots, much prefers his older, worn in ones anyway, and tucked the dress ones between the chair legs. He takes a look around, slinging a satchel over his shoulder as he surveys his cabin to see if he has forgotten anything. With that done, James slips out of the door, shutting it silently behind him and ducking into the nearest heavy shadow. It is evening, now, the stars glittering from behind cloud cover - an irritant for the navigator, but an asset for James as he sticks to the dark places, knowing the guard shifts by heart as he'd assigned them himself. It is slow-going, but he is a patient man when he needs to be, and he eventually finds himself outside of Governor Swann's cabin door. He knocks as quietly as he can, chewing on the inside of his lip as he waits for a response.

Weatherby opens the door, still dressed and clearly having not slept, and blinks when he sees him. James puts a finger to his lips with what he hopes is a meaningful gaze before he can speak. The governor seems to understand, as he pauses with his mouth half open, then slowly closes it and steps aside to let James in. He takes the invitation, slipping past the door and closing it quietly before locking it tight.

"You are in danger," he says firmly.

Weatherby splutters in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

"You are in danger," James repeats, turning toward him and frowning imploringly. "Beckett means to be rid of you, now that you know of the nature of the Heart."

Weatherby stares at him, lips parted once again in surprise. "I...well, I am not the only one. Surely-"

"Those men have been bought," James interjects. "And I...well, Lord Beckett seems to be under the impression that I am more well-trained than is accurate," he scoffs, his stomach clenching bitterly. _He'll obey. It's what he does._ He shakes himself, straightens as he moves past Weatherby. "I'm getting you out of here. Do you need to bring anything with you?"

"I-I-where will we go?" Weatherby stutters, his eyes round. 

"We'll take a dinghy," says James, hunting around for a bag or something similar. "There's a port a manageable distance away. Then we'll...do something."

"Something?"

"I'm sure I'll think of it soon."

Weatherby half-laughs helplessly, looking around. 

"Well, I...we ought to bring money. And supplies."

James pats the satchel resting on his hip. "I have enough food and water to last a few days. It's a risk, but I think I'd prefer a chance at life than a certainty of being hanged, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, I imagine I would."

At James' advice, Weatherby leaves behind his heavy dress garments and his wig (James muses that the man probably had the same thought he did - that that life will soon to be far, far behind him) and takes instead a sack of money and a sturdy coat. He also reaches underneath his pillow, retrieving a pistol and buckling on the holster before putting it away. 

"Do you know how to use that?" James asks, shrugging when Weatherby gives him a dry look. "Only asking."

"As amusing as you apparently are, I think we ought to get going before Beckett catches on."

Together they creep from the cabin, James taking the lead and guiding them through the shadows. It is the dead of night by now, the watch lightly staffed. The sea is quiet - good news for rowing, bad news for sneaking - and James holds his breath as the pair of them tip toe along the squeaky deck. They reach the dinghy on the far end of the _Endeavour_ , where they are least likely to be spotted (hopefully), and James begins to lower it slowly and steadily into the water. He is about halfway finished when a voice nearly makes him piss himself.

"Oi!"

He freezes, looking up and swearing under his breath when he sees a soldier nearly to them. It takes another moment for him to realize that it was not this man's voice that had called out, but that of Murtogg, looking like a fascinating mixture of nervous and indignant as he fixes the soldier with what James assumes is meant to be a haughty glare.

"You there, you're needed...elsewhere!"

Though he is facing away from him, James can almost hear the confused blink in the soldier's voice. "Where?"

"Just-come on, I've got orders from Lord Beckett to locate you, so let's go!"

The soldier pauses, but seems to take him at his word, heading the opposite direction of James and Weatherby without taking notice of them at all. Murtogg catches James' eye as soon as the other soldier is out of sight, saluting him briefly. James smiles and returns it, before finishing the job of lowering the dinghy as quickly as he possibly can. The moment it hits the water he gestures for Weatherby to climb down, keeping an eye out until he is safely aboard before clambering down himself. He grabs the ores and begins to row, resisting the urge to drive the paddels hard and fast and instead keeping it steady, not wanting to draw attention splashing around like a madman. 

The _Endeavour_ grows steadily smaller the further they get from her. Weatherby looks back over his shoulder nervously, though no one appears to have spotted them. The overcast sky will be an advantage, no moonlight to give them away.

"James Norrington," he says as he turns back to face him, the corner of his mouth quirking even as he shakes his head. "I do believe you may be the most foolish man I know."

James gives him a tight lipped smile back, still rowing with long, steady strokes.

"Mr. Swann, on this we agree."


	2. in which desperate times call for desperate measures

A "manageable distance" turns out to be a bit more than James bargained for. His arms are in danger of falling off and tumbling into the sea by the time they reach the port, earning themselves plenty of sideways looks from dock workers as their dinghy slides to a halt in the sand. Weatherby fixes him with a wary look as he clambers out after him, leaning back against the nearest solid object - which happens to be a boulder slimy with algae - and catching his breath.

"If you collapse, I'm afraid I won't be able to do much for you."

"Just give me a moment," says James. "Until I can feel my extremeties, at least."

After a minute or two he can move his fingers and arms again, so he nods toward the docks as they clamber up off of the beach. They look a sight, James can imagine, but as they proceed toward the port town they've arrived at he realizes everyone else does, as well. A pirate port, or if not, a shady one, at least. Easier to blend in, so he won't complain. Very much.

"Don't speak to anyone, if you can help it," he says quietly. "We ought to avoid attention as much as we can."

"Agreed. Where are we going?"

"Somewhere with beds, preferably," says James, keeping his head bowed as they pass a group of rowdy men pushing each other. "There ought to be an inn or a tavern or something."

"Lovely."

James' ears prick at the sounds of shouting and breaking glass, and he veers right to cross the muddy street. Sure enough, they come across a tavern, lights on and heaving with patrons so completely that some of them have trickled out into the street. James squares his shoulders, loosens his stance as he walks, and keeps his head bowed as he leads Weatherby inside. It is a tight fit, but he weaves a path through the bodies expertly - not his first time in a crowded tavern, after all. With a deft shoulder he makes himself room at the bar, shouting for the barman and getting them a room for the night and, after Weatherby turns one down, a drink for himself.

"I'm going upstairs," Weatherby says, speaking loudly to be heard over the noise. "Do stay out of trouble."

"I only make trouble if I need to, sir," James says.

Now alone, James occupies an empty enough corner, no desire to make friends but also appreciating the buzzing activity for busying his mind. Too much quiet, and all he can hear is himself thinking, which is absolutely insufferable more often than not. He takes a long drink from his tankard, leaning against an empty wall and grimacing as a twinge radiates from his shoulder all the way down his back. He certainly isn't an old man (though he fears he is approaching that), but he did row for...several hours. He isn't quite sure how many, it was difficult to keep track, but certainly enough that he is surprised he isn't in more agony. He rolls his shoulders slowly, watching the other patrons getting more loud and more drunk and more clumsy. Had he looked like that, once? He's sure he did, though he can't recall. Can't recall...much, from those days.

"James?"

James blinks, turning away from the scene and coming face to face with none other than Elizabeth Swann, as beautiful as he remembers and yet quite different. Her skin has browned, her hair lightened, and she stands taller, with wider stance and squared shoulders. She also looks extremely confused, which James supposes makes sense. Last she saw him he was meant to be going to his death with the chest of Davy Jones in tow.

"...Miss Swann," he says eventually. "What a surprise."

"I should say so!" she scoffs, looking him over. "What on Earth-what are you doing here?"

"Um. Well. It's a bit complicated," James admits, casting his eyes around. "I'm wary of prying eyes and ears, at the moment."

Elizabeth humms, glancing over her shoulder briefly.

"Buy me a drink, and I'll meet you at the corner table?" she suggests, nodding toward a lonely enough spot in the far back of the tavern.

"As you wish."

James orders himself a (third, but he needn't let the lady know) drink and one for Elizabeth, as well, and takes the moment alone as he awaits the barman to breathe deeply. Elizabeth is a...complicated part of James' life. He thinks he will probably always love her, but lately it's been...hm. Different. Less infatuation, less jealousy, less longing. More respect, more care, more admiration. She's an incredible woman, after all, even if she threw in her lot with the likes of William Turner and the late Captain Jack Sparrow. Perhaps especially then, as she has since appeared to be the only one who could keep either of them relatively on the straight and narrow. A selfish part of James would have liked for her to do the same for him, but then again that is not her responsibility. It is no one's but his own, and he does quite a shit job of it, he's realizing. Perhaps that is why he is so often alone.

The drinks arrive, and he transports them to the rickety, circular table Elizabeth has selected for them. She sits facing the exit, and he is only mildly startled to see a pistol on the table beside her arm. She smiles when he offers the tankard and accepts it with a nod, and he takes a seat opposite her.

"So," he begins, sipping slowly so he doesn't get as drunk as he may have originally intended, "first things. I ought to warn you that your father is with me; he's in a room upstairs."

Elizabeth's mouth pops open, and she is speechless for several moments. "My father?"

He nods. "He and I are...on the run, I suppose. From Lord Beckett."

Another moment of silence. "My, my, James Norrington," she laughs bemusedly. "What on Earth has gotten into you?"

"I'm not quite sure, but it's too late to turn back now," he snorts. "Your father and I were aboard the Dutchman, when Jones told us of the nature of his heart. That whoever destroys it must take his place as captain of the ship."

Elizabeth nods slowly. "Yes. That's true. Why would he tell you?"

"To be honest, I think he knows he's made a deal with the Devil, and his days are numbered," says James. "And he wanted to take back some of his power by getting those under Beckett's thumb to turn on him. Though the two of us were the only ones who heard, and Beckett expected me to keep quiet and...he intended to dispose of your father."

Elizabeth's expression falls into something venemous, a snarl twitching on her upper lip. "Excuse me?"

James just nods. "We managed to get away without being noticed, but I imagine by now Beckett has search parties out. We have delicate information, he'll want us both gone both for that and for the insult."

"You should come with us," she says firmly, in a voice that does not leave room for argument. "We can keep you safe."

"Us?"

"Yes, Jack and Will and everyone."

James blinks at her. "I thought Sparrow was dead."

"Oh. Yes, he was. But now he's not," she says simply.

"...right."

Elizabeth shrugs, sipping her drink. "We've just come back from the Locker."

James nearly chokes. "I-the Locker? What, you went, nicked him, and came back?"

"Yes."

Silence. "If this were anyone else I'd think they were mad. Even so..."

Elizabeth smirks, rolling her eyes at him. "I'm not mad. Not anymore than usual. It's true. Though things are a bit...tense." A pause, as James stares at her expectantly. "Well. We all may have had pistols drawn on each other prior to making port. And we may be making port half so we can purchase gun powder."

James blinks, then snorts. "I see."

She takes a longer drink this time, her eyes passing over the patrons of the tavern rather than his own. "We've hurt each other. Quite a bit. And Barbossa, well...Barbossa wants to live. Ah yes, he's also alive," she adds, at James' dumbfounded face.

"Good lord, do any pirates stay dead?"

"At this point, I'm not quite sure," Elizabeth admits with a crooked smile, though it falls quickly. "None of it matters, anymore. Not with you two in immediate danger. I'll explain to Jack, he'll agree."

"Will he?" James asks dryly. "Last I saw the man he was trying to run me through."

Elizabeth shrugs one shoulder. "Father's done nothing to him. Not directly, anyway. And if I ask nicely he may be persuaded."

"Is that so?"

"Oh, don't look at me like that," she scolds, pursing her lips. "Whatever you're thinking, stop thinking it."

"I said nothing," James smirks.

"Hush. Now, will you take me to my father? I'm sure he'll want to get all of his fretting out of the way before we shove off come dawn, and I have missed him."

The crowd has thinned as to no longer fill the tavern to the brim, many patrons having passed out or stumbled off down the street to try to locate a bed. James leads the way deftly through the bodies that remain and up the rickety staircase. They emerge into a narrow hallway, two rooms on either side for patrons, one on the left end labeled BATH, and the one on the right end with none at all. The hall is lit dimly with two lanterns, and James has to squint to see the number on the door before knocking.

"Mr. Swann, it's me," he says, and a moment later the door has swung open.

"Father," Elizabeth gasps, as if she hadn't quite believed it when James said he was here, and throws her arms around him while he is still dumbstruck. After a moment he recovers and returns the embrace, before holding her back at arm's length.

"Elizabeth," he breathes, looking her over. He glances over her shoulder, before pulling her inside and nodding to James to close the door. Once it is locked again he releases Elizabeth's arms only to turn her face this way and that, to circle her as if expecting to find her bleeding out unawares or perhaps missing a limb. "Are you alright? It's been ages, I-I thought you were-are you alright?"

Elizabeth smiles widely, her eyes a bit shiny as she allows Weatherby to fret to his heart's content. "I'm alright," she assures him. "Really. Are you? James told me what's happened."

Weatherby lets out a long breath, looking tired once more as he releases his daughter in favor of sinking into a chair near the window. "The world is going mad," he says matter-of-factly. "So I'm...coping, I suppose."

"Now that, I can agree with," she says, sitting opposite him and folding her arms on the wood table between them. James occupies the space over her shoulder, leaning on the window frame and peering out into the night to watch the street. "The two of you are coming with us. On the Black Pearl." She raises her eyebrows when Weatherby gives her an incredulous look. "Don't argue. You know it's the safest way."

"I certainly do not know that," Weatherby says sternly. "Safe aboard a pirate ship! And how do you continue to be entangled with those brigands in the first place?"

Elizabeth sighs heavily through her nose, in a way that is reminiscent of her father. "Father, I understand your concerns. But it's either this, or you and James remain on the run on your own. Beckett will be pursuing you. He does not take an insult lightly."

"I'm afraid she's right, sir," says James, eyes still on the streeth below. "On our own, we'll be nothing but sitting ducks. At least aboard the Pearl we'll have numbers, a proper vessel. Weapons, if Captain Sparrow is feeling charitable," he adds with a snort.

Weatherby does not look entirely convinced. "This is madness."

"Yes," Elizabeth agrees gently. She reaches to take her father's hand, squeezing his fingers. "But as you say - the world is going mad. All we can do is try to keep up."

James glances at them both, a silent conversation happening between them. So many years with only the two of them, James can imagine they have had many just like it. After some time, Weatherby sits back in his chair, a resigned expression falling onto his face.

"Very well," he says, looking very unamused by Elizabeth's wide smile. "Temporarily. Until we can find another solution."

"Of course," Elizabeth says, and James smiles a bit, looking back out of the window. She has that way about her. Of making you want to do whatever she asks, whenever she asks, for reasons you can't quite explain.

Elizabeth stays for an hour or so as they essentially trade information - James and Weatherby on their extremely sudden descent into becoming fugitivies, and Elizabeth on...well, quite a lot. If James has it right, it seems that the pirates are all at each other's throats for reasons that vary only slightly, and seem to all boil down to want of the Pearl. She is a fast and furious ship, he'll admit, but he'll never quite understand what it is about her that drives every pirate aboard her completely mad with desire. Mr. Turner, as ever, wants the vessel for a foolish task - this particular one being rescuing his father from the clutches of Davy Jones. Barbossa and Sparrow are engaged in their typical tug of war like a pair of children, and Elizabeth just seems to want everyone to cooperate long enough to avoid the noose. Doubtful, but he can appreciate her optimism. Sort of.

"I need to get back," Elizabeth says eventually, getting to her feet. "Meet us at the docks at sunrise. I'll convince Jack before then."

"I won't hold my breath, but I appreciate the effort," says James dryly. He returns her crooked smile, and watches her go before crossing the room to lock the door behind her.

"I will be honest," says Weatherby, still in his seat at the old table. "I never thought to see that girl again."

James nods.

"Nor did I."

They turn down for the evening, James putting out the lanterns and crawling into the second bed with a groan. He's quite sure his shoulders will be on fire in the morning, if they aren't completely locked up and unusable forever, after the hours of rowing. It has certainly been a very, very lengthy twenty four hours. The window is cracked a bit, and the cool air brushes over his face. He inhales it slowly, closing his eyes and letting out the breath before repeating. After a few passes, he is asleep. 


	3. in which allowances are made and definitions pondered

The sky is a pale blue, the shadows still dark and broad , as James and Weatherby make their way to the docks the following morning. The sun is just peeking over the horizon, a halo of melting yellow and white emanating from it's edges and painting the sea. James has always had a weakness for such sights, as common as they were in his (prior) line of work - he supposed it was part of being a human, to appreciate the sun in one way or another. As they draw nearer, James can see the Black Pearl herself, melting into existence as the morning mist parts. The tranquil silence is also interrupted by voices, echoing over the water in heated, clipped tones.

"I think you're just being stubborn."

"Do you? Well, I can't imagine why I would be, after all we've been getting on so well-"

"Jack, this is bigger than that, now!"

James raises an eyebrow as they approach the end of the dock to find Elizabeth and Sparrow, alive indeed, nearly toe to toe. He clears his throat pointedly.

"Are we interrupting something?"

Both Elizabeth and Sparrow's eyes swivel toward him, the latter immediately narrowing.

"Commodore," Sparrows drawls, opening his arms as if in greeting while the tilt of his mouth betrays his malice. "And here I hoped you were dead."

Unimpressed, James purses his lips. "Not quite. I am sorry to disappoint you."

"Well, what say you try to set foot on my ship and we'll see what we can do to remedy the situation?"

"Jack," Elizabeth interjects firmly. "Will you just listen to me? Please?"

"We haven't the time to unpack all of the reasons why you've no right to ask things of me," Jack said, not looking at her. "And even if you did, I don't trust this man as far as I can throw him."

"This isn't about that, or us. My father is in danger," Elizabeth insists, gesturing to Weatherby who has, so far, seemed content to keep his distance. "I know I have no right, but I also know that you are a good man. Or if not good, at least decent."

Sparrow's moustache twitches, and he finally spares her a glance, his brows low over his eyes. "Liz-Elizabeth," he corrects himself, and that certainly does not escape James' notice. "I am sorry about your...family trouble. But I have me own hide to worry about, and if your bewigged ex-lover decided to throw his own life and the dear governor's away at the same time, then I don't see how that's my problem to solve."

"I did not throw my life away, I defied a man that was doing something morally abhorrent," James snaps, clenching his fists, before taking a deep, measured breath. Once he has control of his temper, he continues. "I don't like this anymore than you do and, frankly, if I had another option I'd take it. But I don't. So if not for me, for the sake of an innocent man - reconsider."

Sparrow regards him with dark, shrewd eyes, advancing on him slowly until they're nearly toe to toe. He smells of tobacco and vanilla, James notes inanely.

"And how am I to trust that you won't double cross me just as you did the last time you were on my crew, Commodore?"

"I am not a Commodore any longer, Sparrow."

"Ah, a promotion for your treachery. How lovely."

'Yes. But now, I imagine that is out of the window, as well."

"Hm. Even so - you're a slimy bugger," Sparrow says matter-of-factly, now so close that their noses would brush if James leaned forward a few inches. "What's to stop you?"

James purses his lips, his heart racing at the proximity but refusing to back away. "A modicum of respect wouldn't hurt," he sniffs. "And things are different. I won't do anything to jeapordize Mr. Swann's safety, or his daughter's."

Sparrow smiles crookedly. "Still hung up on that one, eh? Trust me, s'not worth it."

"You make an awful lot of assumptions about things you know nothing about," James told him, clipped. "Some of us care for others without ulterior motives."

"Mm. Sounds boring." Sparrow considers him for another moment, before finally stepping out of his personal space and making his way toward the Pearl. "Fine. Come aboard, then."

Elizabeth's face splits into a smile, and she reaches to take Weatherby's arm. "Come on."

James takes a moment to pause, probably for the first time since deciding to save Weatherby's life, and think about what he's doing. He's about to board a pirate ship, for one, a ship that he served very briefly on before double crossing the lot of them to get a life back that he promptly threw away again. A ship that is captained by the man responsible for his life falling apart in the first place. Somehow both the worst and best pirate James has ever heard of. Nearly the only redeeming quality the man has to his name is the affection of Elizabeth Swann. James trusts her judgment to an extent. She is rash, and often seems to be in search of that which is the most exciting rather than the most practical, but she doesn't throw her lot in with evil. It's an odd concept, but James has been to rock bottom and back. A man's worldview changes, when they've been in the dark.

With one more steeling breath, he ascends the gangway.

Elizabeth seems to have understated the tension that would be present on the Pearl. Almost the second he sets foot on the deck, James can hear Barbossa and Sparrow bickering back and forth, interjected by other voices every so often. When he cranes his head around the crowd of Sparrows (is it Sparrow's?) crew, he can see the two of them facing down, Elizabeth and William Turner at their elbows. James wonders, not for the first time, why pirates seem to have no concept of personal space, watching as Barbossa and Sparrow lean toward each other as they trade barbs.

"Captain gives orders."

"The Captain is givin' orders."

"It's my ship!"

"I seem to remember wrestin' it from you, or did ye forget?"

Sparrow glowers, clenching his jaw. "Yeah? Well you're a bastard."

Barbossa laughs, and Elizabeth looks like she'd love to send them both overboard.

"Enough," she snaps, pushing them both apart as if she has no fear of their many weapons. Perhaps she hasn't. "To hell with whoever is Captain, it doesn't matter. We agreed on what to do."

"You agreed, I did not," Barbossa snaps, though he doesn't lift a hand to her. "Sparrow may have gone soft in the heart but I've still got a bit of preservation for meself in mine!"

"Then go," Elizabeth says stiffly, staring him down. "We'll get you a ship and you can leave."

"Ain't leavin' with nothin' but the Pearl."

"Then I suppose we're at an impasse," Elizabeth sniffs. "Because you'll not have her until my father is safe."

Barbossa snorts. "She ain't yours to give."

"Perhaps not. But once we've gotten them somewhere safe, I won't interfere if you two imbeciles want to kill each other over a boat."

"Ship," Jack corrects.

"I'm aware of what I said."

"I think y'may be over-estimatin' your own power, Miss Swann," Barbossa says with a scowl.

Elizabeth is not one to be intimidated, James knows, though he is surprised when she pulls a pistol and presses it firmly to the pirate's chest.

"You are mortal now, Hector," she says. "Or...did you forget?"

Barbossa laughs, and it almost seems genuine. "Shapin' up to be quite the pirate yerself."

"So it would seem," she says, cocking the weapon expertly. "Now. We went to all this trouble to bring Jack back from the dead, but I'm not sure this crew would be quite so willing to do the same for you. Unless you'd like to take your chances that Tia Dalma is just paritcularly fond of you."

Barbossa smiles crookedly, his eyes flashing, but he slowly raises his hands. "No need, m'lady," he drawls. "I'll behave."

Elizabeth considers him for a moment, then nods and holsters her weapon. "Good."

James blinks after her as she goes to assist with getting the ship sea ready. He'd half expected Barbossa to turn on her, but he does as he said, behaving himself and going to assist as well. He locks eyes with Sparrow, who seems equally perplexed, and quickly looks away.

"Well," Weatherby says weakly. "She has certianly...grown up."

"That is a word for it," says James. He is distracted from his thoughts by Turner approaching them, though the man seems to doing his best to avoid looking at James. "Mr. Turner."

"Mr. Norrington. Gorvernor," Turner says, the second much more kindly. "Elizabeth told me what you've both been through. Are you alright?"

"Oh, I wouldn't go quite so far as that," Weatherby scoffs wearily. "But I am uninjured, for what that is worth. James saw to that."

Turner nods, finally meeting James' eyes. "Getting him out of there was brave. We're very thankful."

"Bravery would hve been never finding myself in that situation int he first place," James says evenly. "I made the only choice there was."

"If you say so. Sir," Turner says, turning back to Weatherby. "I...can't guarantee quality sleeping quarters. But I can do my best."

"Don't trouble yourself," Weatherby insists, waving him off. "I'm aboard a bloody pirate ship."

Turner smiles a bit, and nods. "I'll be back," he says, before turning and heading off.

"Well. At least he's been looking after her."

James hums quietly, watching Turner go. "I don't think she needs as much looking after as we thought. But, yes. He has."

He feels Weatherby's eyes but doesn't meet them. "I often wonder if you would have done a better job of it."

"Oh, I highly doubt that," James says dryly. "At least Turner has never fallen asleep drunk in a pig sty before."

"Mm."

"He is a good man," James says. "Rash, maybe. But then, so is she. They are evenly matched. And he adores her, as she deserves to be adored. I don't dwell on what could have been, these days. Only what is."

"Is it that simple?"

"Not at all. But I do believe it. Both of us deserve better than me clinging to her skirts like a fool."

Weatherby hums quietly. "You still love her. It's in your voice."

"Always," James says firmly, because that much has always been and will continue to be certain. "But there are many ways to love someone."

* * *

The Pearl is a familiar vessel, far more familiar than James is comfortable admitting. He finds himself on deck alone that first night, leaning with his arms folded on the well-worn banister. His eyes trace shapes in the stars, some that he learned and some he invented over the years, the sound of the ship cutting through waves a soothing crash to his ears.

"Commodore."

Norrington lifts his eyes further upward at the greeting, the far-too-familiar shape of Jack Sparrow pausing at his elbow.

"Norrington."

"Oh, are we past titles? Isn't that darling."

"I was promoted, and then promptly turned traitor. So the title you are using is incorrect twice over."

Sparrow hums, and James feels his eyes on him so accutely that he has to turn to meet them.

"What are you staring at?"

"Just trying to figure you out, mate."

James snorts. "I'm afraid you'll find I'm not all that complicated."

"Shame. I do love a complicated man."

James purses his lips, his ears burning. "There's nothing to figure out."

"Now that, i don't believe at all," says Jack, the corner of his mouth lifting slyly. "You have quite possibly switched sides more than any other person I have known."

"More times than you?"

"Honestly? Maybe."

James fights the way his mouth wants to curve upward, looking away from him again. "I suppose I'm at a crossroads. With myself. Or. My morality. I'm not sure exactly what is right and what isn't, anymore. Or if such things even exist."

"Hm. An interesting crisis, if one is to have a crisis."

James shoots him a dry look out of the corner of his eye. "Oh, I interest you, now?"

"Always."

"Just this morning you were threatening my life."

"Well, yes. There's hardly a man or woman aboard whose life I haven't threatened at least in passing."

James shakes his head, bewildered by him as usual.

"As I said. Nothing to figure out. I made the only choice that could be made, and here we are."

"I do find it so interesting," Jack practically purrs. A shiver goes down James' spine. "The fact that this...dilemma of yours, your many crises, all seem to lead you back to piracy."

"Interesting is a word. Pathetic, is another."

"Not pathetic to take charge of your own life," Jack points out. "And perhaps, if your efforts to do the right thing, the thing that feels good in your gut, keep leading you astray of the law...then the law is what's wrong."

James glances at him, meeting his eyes briefly before redirecting his gaze again. He always feels as if Jack is seeing far too much.

"Another man would say that my moral compass doesn't know what's good for it," he says. "That I can't trust myself."

Jack hums low in his chest. "If I've learned one thing, it's that the only person you can really trust is yourself. All others are fallible. In the end it's every man for himself, when you're in the shit."

"That's awfully pessimistic."

"Oh? Have you seen some shiny side of the world I haven't?"

James opens his mouth, then closes it.

"...no. I suppose I haven't."

"Mm." It's quiet for a moment or two, before Jack pushes away from the banister. "Well. I'll leave you to your brooding."

"I don't-"

"And just know I have my eye on you. More than usual," Jack adds, grinning lopsidedly.

James frowns at him. "I don't know what that is supposed to mean. But, fine. Watch away."

"Oh, I will."


End file.
